


stop, look, hasten

by lotts (LottieAnna)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Getting Together, M/M, Tucson Roadrunners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 14:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12842754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LottieAnna/pseuds/lotts
Summary: In the cartoon, Coyote always blows himself up with dynamite, or falls off a cliff, or whatever. Roadrunner’s the one who wins.(Or: Nick and Dylan in Tucson)





	stop, look, hasten

**Author's Note:**

> **if you see your name or the name of someone you know in the tags, please click away. please.**
> 
>  
> 
> i'm not super sure how i feel about this, but dylan got called up and it gave me some guidance. this is unbeta'd, so if you see any glaring typos, lmk. there's some blink-and-you'll-miss-it implied background tk/law in this. maybe. title from an old roadrunner and coyote cartoon.
> 
> sorry if you read this in the hour that i had it published anonymously and with a slightly different title. also, this is maybe the saddest thing i've ever written, which means it's like. slightly melancholy? maybe?
> 
> enjoy!

Nick is a pretty self-assured guy, y’know? He doesn’t want to be cocky about it, but, like, he’s hard-working, handsome, and really good at hockey, even if he’s not, like, prodigy-levels of good. The Coyotes roster is hard to crack, and Nick’s playing well in Tucson, and that’s still professional hockey. 

Besides, in the cartoon, Coyote always blows himself up with dynamite, or falls off a cliff, or whatever. Roadrunner’s the one who wins. 

It’s not like Nick had expected to make the team, anyway. He’s a good guy with a good attitude, and he’s playing good hockey, and that’s what counts. 

 

When Dylan gets sent down, it’s, like. Awkward. 

All anyone besides Dylan and Tocchet can do is speculate, so Nick doesn’t know what the plan is, but he does know that, from the outside, it seems like kind of a tragedy: third overall pick fails to crack roster for the third year in a row, comes in second to Clayton Keller for the second time this year. 

Like, it’s poetic as shit.

Really, though, it’s not like his situation is any worse than Nick’s. Dylan was drafted higher, but Nick was still a first-rounder, and Nick is also used to being one of the best. It’s just, like – Nick was cut from Team Canada camp, and Dylan was their captain. It’s not a huge difference, except that when Dylan came so close to being the best of the best and fell short, everyone was watching. 

But, like, now Nick and Dylan are pretty much in the same boat, media shit aside, and it is, objectively, not a bad boat.

So, the point is: it’s awkward at first, but Dylan arrives in the Roadrunners locker room with his lopsided grin and easy laugh, and then it’s not. 

 

Nick and Dylan get along because it makes sense that they do. They are both social people, and they like having friends, and they’re both pretty friendly, even if Dylan’s a little meaner, and maybe a little louder. 

It’s harder to explain why they kind of gravitate towards each other the way they do, and why they’re so good at sharing space, but it works, and when Dylan comes to Tucson, he and Nick pick up right where they left off. 

Nick would rather sit in their living room and wear headphones if Dylan’s using the TV, because he likes being with Dylan more than he likes being without him. They’re not even touching, usually, and Nick wouldn’t even be able to tell that Dylan’s there at all if he didn’t glance up from his computer screen every so often to look at him. 

Not that he’s staring at Dylan, or anything. Just. Sometimes Dylan laughs, and Nick likes to watch it, and then Dylan will look over and they’ll share a smile, and it’s just. Nice. 

More often than Nick likes to think about, he’ll look over and see Dylan’s eyes as they flicker away from Nick’s face, and a few times, Dylan’s just kept on staring, for a second. Those times, Nick makes a dumb face, and Dylan will blink, and then roll his eyes and turn his eyes back to whatever he was watching as the corners of his mouth turn up, just a little. 

It makes Nick feel warm all over, and it’s nice, but it also makes him nervous, like this is something they shouldn’t be doing, maybe. But it’s not really anything, just looking at each other and, like, smiling sometimes. 

 

(It’s beautiful, Nick realizes. 

Like, Dylan’s smile – that’s why Nick likes it so much. It’s beautiful. It’s a kind of beauty that’s hidden beneath a bunch of other great things, which is why Nick doesn’t see it at first. It’s not quite striking; it’s lopsided and genuine and fond, at first, and then it becomes beautiful, almost as an afterthought.

It’s more wonderful than just being beautiful, but still, it’s definitely beautiful, too.)

 

“I have a secret,” Nick confesses one night, when they’re both very high.

“What?” Dylan says, leaning very close.

“So,” Nick says, and then he pauses for, like, a minute, to look at Dylan’s face. “Um, so.” 

“So,” Dylan says, and then he giggles, which gets Nick giggling. 

“Anyway,” Nick says. “My secret is, um. You know how the Coyotes haven’t won a game?” 

“Yeah?” Dylan says. 

“Well,” Nick says. 

Dylan’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god, are you making them lose?” 

“What? No,” Nick says. “How would that even work?” 

“I don’t know, you could’ve cursed them or something,” Dylan says. 

“Curses aren’t real,” Nick says, and his cheeks are sore, he realizes, from smiling. He doesn’t know when he started smiling. Probably when Dylan started talking. 

“Okay, then what?” Dylan asks, and it takes Nick a second to process that. 

“Well, I… it’s great,” Nick says. 

Dylan blinks. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Nick says. 

“That’s the secret?” Dylan says. “That you’re happy they’re losing?” 

Nick shrugs. “I guess.” 

“Why’s that a secret?” Dylan asks, very genuine. 

“We’re supposed to be good sports about it,” Nick says. 

“Outwardly, sure,” Dylan says. “But – they sent us down. We can be bitter.” 

“I don’t get bitter,” Nick says. 

“Okay, then, sad, or whatever. Just – let yourself be unhappy, y’know?” 

“That doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

“Shit’s unpleasant.” Dylan shrugs. “It’s good, though. I think. Healthy.” 

 

Later, when they’re almost sober: 

“Did… something happen?” Nick asks. 

Dylan looks at him, kind of confused, mostly guarded. “What?” 

“I dunno.” Nick shrugs. “You just seem better.” 

“Better than what?”

“Than last year.” 

Dylan blinks. “I am, yeah.” 

“So, did something happen?” Nick asks. 

A beat, and then, “I dunno. I got a new phone. That helped.”

“Fresh start,” Nick says, nodding. “Whatever works for you, man.” 

* * *

Dylan and Nick are just. Tearing it up.

Nick is playing like a fucking beast, and he’s leading the team in goals by a mile, but Dylan’s racking up points like nobody’s business, and Nick can’t help but think that Dylan's too good to be here. But they're hockey players, and they're not too good for any hockey, and anyway, things in Tucson are going well for Dylan, and for Nick too; top line on a winning team is, objectively, a situation Nick likes being in.

So, yeah. This, here, is good.

 

“You’re so good,” Nick says, and he’s, like, fucking wasted. The party’s barely even begun; they started pregaming way too early, before their costumes were even on, and then Dylan and Latts had changed into their… Nick’s not even sure what they’re supposed to be. Like, cops? But fake looking, with, like, built-in lingerie? Whatever, Nick is a greaser, and he looks “adorable,” according to Dylan. 

Dylan just laughs, drunk and uninhibited. “So are you.” 

“But you’re–” Nick frowns, trying to think of the right word. “You’re just, like,  _ so  _ good.” It’s not quite what he’s going for, but Dylan looks pleased, which is very much what Nick is going for. 

“You’re nice,” Dylan says, smiling, crooked and obviously beautiful, how did Nick not realize it was beautiful at first? He very much wants to kiss it, right now. 

That’s. New. 

 

Nick blinks. Dylan’s still smiling. 

The world around Nick does not stop, but Nick’s world does. 

 

It’s not fair, he decides. 

It’s not fair that it’s here, and now, when Dylan looks not very good. That’s not even mean, because Dylan isn’t trying to look good. His costume is weird-looking and more goofy than sexy, and he’s kind of sloppy-drunk, and he can’t be bothered to be pretty, probably, can’t be bothered to be anything but flushed and happy, and it’s – it’s not fair, not fair at all, that he just gets to be a beautiful, giggly mess, and Nick wants to kiss him this badly for it. 

Nick is charming, in an easy, uncomplicated way. Dylan Strome has never liked anything easy or uncomplicated in his life. It’s just – that’s not Dylan. That’s not the Dylan that Nick grew up knowing, and it’s not really the Dylan that Nick knows now, even though this Dylan seems a little easier, like he’s untangled, almost. It’s only a little, though; Nick is pretty sure Dylan isn’t charmed by charming things, and Nick knows, first and foremost, that he is charming. 

 

“Merks?” Dylan asks, which snaps Nick out of it. 

“Yeah, sorry,” Nick says, and gives Dylan a charming smile. “I’m gonna get another drink.” 

“Let me join you,” Dylan says, grinning again, and Nick feels an unfamiliar ache. 

 

“You keep looking at Stromer,” Latts says. 

Nick blushes, but shrugs. “He’s fun to look at, I guess.” It’s not what he means to say, and not something he should say, probably. 

“Well,” Latts says, nodding. “That’s something.” 

Nick doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and he’s too drunk to figure it out, so he just shrugs again, takes another sip. 

* * *

When Nick wakes up the next morning, Dylan is standing in his doorframe, fidgeting, and Nick’s head is pounding.

“Sleep well?” Dylan says. 

Nick groans at the noise, and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m not alive.” 

“I come bearing Advil,” Dylan says, nodding in the direction of Nick’s nightstand. There are two painkillers set out, along with a bottle of Gatorade. 

“You’re an angel,” Nick says. “A literal angel.” 

“I do what I can,” Dylan says.

And then Dylan’s phone rings–  

 

(Connor McDavid calls, sometimes, and Dylan has always answered. 

“It used to be worse,” Lawson says, as the Flyers game plays on mute, Dylan locked in his room. “Because of their whole – y’know.” 

Nick does not know, but he nods anyway. “Complicated guys.” 

“For sure,” Lawson says. “Stromer seems better, though.” 

“He’s great,” Nick says, a little too full of some mix of pride and fondness to pass for casual. 

Lawson stares at him, lets him off the hook. “That’s what the scoresheet says.” 

They sit on Nick and Dylan’s couch, staring at the door to Dylan’s bedroom, and Nick can’t hear a word they’re saying. 

“It used to be really bad,” Lawson says. “They’d fight, a lot. Loudly.” 

“When?” 

Lawson shrugs. “Last year, at the start. It was stressful.” 

“For who?” Nick says, flashing Lawson an easy smile, even though he doesn’t really feel it.

“Everybody.” Lawson rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, you don’t – it was bad.”

“Guess it’s better this way,” Nick says, but something onscreen catches Lawson’s eye, so he’s  not really listening anymore. 

Nick’s not sure how much more he wanted to know, anyway.

 

Connor McDavid calls, sometimes, and Nick doesn’t want to listen in, but he sometimes does, anyway, because he’s always listening for Dylan’s voice. He can’t really make out what they’re saying usually, and it’s only happened a handful of times.) 

 

–Dylan answers it, casual. “Hey, Davo, what’s up?”

Nick’s heart is already beating too damn loud. 

“I’m actually busy right now,” Dylan says, looking right at Nick, and he makes a face that makes Nick smile, despite the hangover. Dylan smiles back, and then, into the receiver, “Yeah, I’m with Merks.” 

He turns so he’s leaning against Nick’s doorframe, and then, “Okay, fuck you too.” Then, easy as anything, he smiles and says, into the phone, “I love you too, bye,” and he hangs up, looks at Nick, and rolls his eyes fondly. “Davo says hi.” 

“Tell him I say hi back,” Nick says. 

“Will do,” Dylan says, and then, “Did you want coffee?”

“Please,” Nick says, grateful. 

 

Dylan is always thinking, always planning, always considering, Nick notices. It’s easy to forget, off the ice, when he’s as calm as anything, but on the ice it’s plain as day. There’s a sharpness to his hockey, like he won’t let the puck hit his stick if he doesn’t know where he wants it to go next, and he won’t fall back on instinct unless he has to. He plays well when he doesn’t have the space he needs, but he’s just out of this world when he does, and Nick has so many fucking goals because Dylan Strome can get into his head and see the ice through Nick’s eyes, because he doesn’t keep his sense to himself. 

It’s not quite magic, really, just a process with steps too small for Nick to see. 

(It still feels a little bit like magic.)

 

“Dude,” Lawson says, scrolling through Dylan’s phone one day. “Half your camera roll is Merks.” 

Dylan looks at Nick, and Nick can see the gears turning, subtle and fine and considering. “We look good together,” he says, turning back to Law. 

It’s casual and calculated, and Nick thinks he’s supposed to do something with that, but he can’t wrap his head around what, so he just smiles his most impressive thousand-watt smile and tilts his head towards Dylan, like they’re being photographed. “He’s taking advantage of having a friend who’s better looking than him, for once.” 

“Wow, that was harsh,” Dylan says, a little surprised, a little delighted. “Since when are you mean?” 

“Since I started living with you,” Nick says simply. 

“Wouldn’t having a better looking friend make you look worse by comparison?” Lawson asks. 

“No, it’s like, the photo’s better-looking overall, so you come across better,” Nick says. 

“Y’know, the cheerleader effect, or whatever,” Dylan says, reaching across the table to take his phone back from Law. 

“So you’re only friends with Merks for his looks?” Lawson says, resting his chin in his palm. 

Dylan gives Nick an apologetic look. “Sorry, bud, I really needed some better photos.” 

“It’s okay,” Nick says, then sighs. “It’s the cost of being beautiful.” 

Lawson snorts, and Dylan gives Nick an amused smile, but Nick’s pretty sure he sees something else flash in Dylan’s eyes, something more considering, gone so fast Nick’s not sure it was anything more than a trick of the light. 

 

Nick is caught up in Dylan, and Nick is not used to being caught up in people. Nick typically trusts his instincts and relies on his smile, and usually, things will work out for him, except his instincts are nothing compared to the careful way Dylan moves his limbs, navigating the space around Nick like it’s his to give and take, but he chooses to be cautious anyway. 

Nick’s pretty sure he let this happen, isn’t really sure how; he can never tell the  _ why  _ with Dylan, is the thing. He doesn’t know if Dylan’s trying to take his breath away when he tucks his toes under Nick’s leg on the couch, or if that’s just where he wants his feet and Nick’s breathlessness is just a byproduct. He doesn’t know if Dylan expects him to blush when his gaze lingers a little too long. He can’t figure out if Dylan’s pushing the limits of normal friendship when he stretches his arm across the back cushion and lets his fingers brush Nick’s shoulder, because Nick doesn’t even know what those limits are, just knows that he’ll carefully move a little closer to Dylan anyway, until their sides almost touch, at which point he’ll imagine how nice it would be to tuck himself up against Dylan’s side, but settle for sitting asymptotically close, or, if they lights are out and he’s feeling brave, lying down with his head in Dylan’s lap and letting Dylan run a hand through his hair. 

It should be easy, it should be nothing, but of course it’s not. 

 

Connor McDavid calls, one day, when Dylan’s not in the room, but his phone is, and Nick answers it, something between an accident and accidentally-on-purpose. 

“Hello?” Nick says. 

“Um,” McDavid’s voice says. “I’m – this is Dylan’s phone, right?” 

“Yeah, is–” Nick pulls the phone away from his ear, looks at it, like he’s not already perfectly aware that it’s Dylan’s. Nick’s not really sure why he’s doing this. “Oh, shit, sorry, man,” he laughs, polite. “This is Merkley, Stromer left his phone in here. My bad.” 

“Oh,” McDavid says, and makes a weird noise that Nick’s pretty sure is a laugh. “Gotcha, gotcha. Alright, I’ll text him, then.” 

“Sure thing,” Nick says, and then he hangs up. 

The polite smile he wasn’t even aware had been on his face starts to fade, and he stares at the phone and blinks. If it were his, he’d throw it across the room, but as it stands, he just tosses it gently to the other side of the couch, puts a pillow over his face, and screams as loud as he can without pissing off their neighbors. 

* * *

In Nick’s opinion, there are two settings of Dylan Strome: incredibly complicated and hard to read, or frustratingly straightforward, and absolutely nothing in between. It’s a problem, because sometimes Nick doesn’t know which one he’s dealing with.

Occasionally, it’s both. i.e.: 

“Are you dating anyone?” Dylan asks, totally out of the blue, one day when they’re hanging out in the living room.

Nick is speechless for a millisecond, long enough for Dylan to notice, not long enough to warrant a comment. “Uh, no, I’m not.”

Dylan nods. “Cool,” he says, and then, after a second, he smiles, small and crooked. 

Nick melts, probably turns bright red, and Dylan’s smile grows even wider at that, which really isn’t helping Nick keep it together, like, at all. “Uh, are you?” he asks.

Dylan shakes his head slowly, still grinning. “Nope.” 

“Alright,” Nick says, and he gives up on trying to not sound flustered. “That’s cool.” 

“Nick,” Dylan says, looking Nick straight in the eye. 

Nick’s stomach begins to do somersaults, or, like, an Olympic gymnastics routine, or something.  “Yeah?” he says, his voice kind of weak. 

Dylan does this hand gesture, like he’s telling Nick to fill in the blanks. “I mean.” 

“Um.” Nick has been speaking for, like, 20 years, and theoretically, he knows how to form words, and even whole sentences usually, but right now, his brain is mostly static and his mouth his very dry, so he doesn't really manage to do any of that.  

“Oh my god,” Dylan says, and the tops of his cheeks are red, but he sounds a little delighted. “Are you, like, nervous?” 

Nick smiles, kind of embarrassed. “Shut up.” 

“You so are.” Dylan sounds downright gleeful, because he’s terrible. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous.”

“You’ve seen me nervous so many times,” Nick laughs, and covers his face with both hands. “I’m usually just better at hiding it.” 

“Fair enough,” Dylan says, a little gentler, more fond. “Do I usually make you nervous?” 

“A little,” Nick admits, turning his head a little and peeking through his fingers to look at Dylan. He’s blushing harder than Nick had expected, and smiling wider, but there’s still something easy about it. 

Nick sits up, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens them, and turns to look at Dylan. His face is  fading into something serious, now, and when they lock eyes, Nick’s brain goes right back to blankness.  Dylan looks down at Nick’s mouth, then back up, and Nick can barely process what’s happening as Dylan starts to lean in. It feels like a big thing, and Nick can feel his heart beating really fast, but he’s kind of frozen as Dylan moves closer, until Dylan’s eyes go half-lidded and he tilts his head. 

Nick flinches. 

Moves back, to be precise, away from Dylan’s lips. He’s not sure why, really; maybe it’s a panic thing, or, like, maybe he just has really good reflexes? It’s certainly not a conscious thing, because he definitely wants to kiss Dylan. 

There’s a second where Dylan’s face looks terrified, so Nick smiles, charming as ever, and says, “At least take me out to dinner first.” 

Dylan stares at him for a second. “Oh my  _ god,”  _ he says, and then he does this weird, breathy laugh, almost disbelieving. “Oh my god, that was terrible, you’re literally – you’re awful. You’re literally the worst person I’ve ever met.” 

“I’m sorry,” Nick says, and he’s laughing too, now, mostly giddy and only a little nervous. 

“That was mean. I can’t believe – dude, I was so fucking worried.” He clasps his fingers on top of his head, then shakes his head a little, a bewildered smile on his face. “Wow, fuck you, if you’re messing with me–”

“I’m not, I swear,” Nick says quickly. “I was serious about dinner.” 

“You better fucking be,” Dylan says. “Wow, that was–” 

“It was pretty good,” Nick says. 

Dylan rolls his eyes, but begrudgingly smiles. “Like, maybe.”

“Like, definitely,” Nick says, grinning ear-to-ear. “C’mon, say you’ll go to dinner with me.” 

“Well, obviously I will,” Dylan says, standing up from the couch, holding out a hand to Nick. “Let’s go.” 

“It’s, like, 4:30,” Nick says, but he grabs Dylan’s hand and lets himself be tugged up. Dylan’s hand is warm, and he’s not letting go of Nick, so Nick doesn’t either. 

“Well, I’m not gonna sit around this apartment not kissing you,” Dylan says. “C’mon, Chipotle’s open.” 

“Romantic,” Nick says. 

“You’re the one who wanted dinner,” Dylan says. 

Nick tilts his head and pretends to think about it. “Well, I guess I’d rather postpone until tomorrow and go on a proper date.” 

“So what’re you saying?” Dylan grabs Nick’s other hand and pulls him a little closer.

“Maybe dinner can wait,” Nick says, and he runs his hands up Dylan’s arms, rests them on his shoulders, and leans in. 

In retrospect, Nick should have expected that Dylan would lean away, and he probably deserves it, but it doesn’t quite matter, because they’re kissing soon enough. 

 

They order in, that night. Like, pizza, maybe? 

Honestly, Nick doesn’t remember, and really doesn’t care, like, at all. 

(It is pizza, but Nick only remembers that because he distinctly remembers Dylan jokingly trying to eat the slice in Nick’s hand and ending up with a glob of mozzarella on his chest. Because Dylan was shirtless. And Nick’s seen Dylan shirtless plenty of times, but this was like,  _ shirtless- _ shirtless, and the cheese thing was gross, but weirdly hot, in the moment? Or maybe he just likes Dylan a lot, who knows, whatever.)

 

They’re on the bus, and Dylan has one arm around Nick’s shoulders, and he’s using the other to scroll through his phone. It’s quiet on the bus, and Nick and Dylan both played well, and Dylan is quite lanky, which means that this is actually pretty comfortable, so, Nick’s having a good night. 

“Lawson?” Dylan says out of the blue, not looking up from his phone. 

“‘sup?” Lawson says from the seat in front of them. 

“Stop gossiping,” Dylan says. 

“I’m not.” 

“You sent that snap to half our friends, dude,” Dylan says, locking his phone and putting it face-down on his leg. “Marns ratted you out.” 

“I didn’t send it to Marns,” Lawson says. 

“No, but you sent it to Stephens, who told Barz, who told Marns,” Dylan says. “Amateur move, man.” 

“What was the snap?” Nick asks Dylan, curious. 

“It was just, like, from a few minutes ago,” Dylan says. 

“You two being gross,” Lawson adds. 

“We’re, like, barely cuddling,” Nick says, rolling his eyes. “You’ve got bad gossip, Crouse.” 

“Four different people told me you guys are cute together,” Lawson says. “In case you wanted to know.” 

“I mean, no shit, but it’s still gossip,” Dylan says, and he picks up his phone, the screen illuminating his face. “For real, quit it with the paparazzi stuff.”

“Fine,” Lawson says, rolling his eyes, before turning around and putting his headphones in. 

Nick doesn’t even think about it until Dylan nudges him with his phone a few seconds later, and there’s an unsent text to Nick’s number.

_ r u cool w/ people knowing?  _

Nick reads it, then looks up at Dylan and nods, because he honestly hadn’t thought about it, but it’s not like he’s trying to keep it a secret. 

Dylan smiles, and presses a kiss to the top of his head before he says, “Lawson?”

“Yeah?” Lawson yanks out one of his earbuds and turns around again.. 

“Can you send me the picture you took?” Dylan asks. 

“Sure thing,” Lawson says. 

“Is it good?” Nick asks. 

“Any photo with you in it is good,” Dylan says. 

“Well, any photo with both of us in it is better,” Nick says, kissing Dylan’s cheek, because it’s there. 

“Absolutely disgusting,” Lawson says, and Nick happily flips him off. 

 

They go out for dinner, and get ice cream, and go to the movies, and Nick is happy, and Dylan is happy. They work together and live together, and they’re so new that too much time together isn’t even a possibility that seems real to them. Nick can’t get enough of Dylan, and Dylan can’t get enough of Nick, and they’re still playing fucking incredible hockey, and things are almost too good, honestly. 

Nick doesn’t think that too good is a problem, honestly, until it becomes one.

* * *

They’re in Dylan’s bedroom when the phone rings, both of them half-clothed and tangled up in the sheets, and Dylan’s face does something strange when he sees who it’s from, practically leaps out of the bed.

“Sorry,” Dylan says, over his shoulder, and Nick barely hears him say “Hello?” into the receiver before the door is slamming behind him. 

It’s on Twitter before Dylan hangs up, but Nick figures it out on his own, and Dylan pretty much confirms it when he walks back in a few minutes later, still wearing only his boxers and mismatched socks that Nick’s pretty sure belong to him, his hands shaking. 

 

“This is good news,” Dylan says flatly, his feet dangling off the edge of the bed. 

Nick grabs his hand loosely, rubs his thumb in small circles. “It really is.” After a beat, he adds, “It makes sense.” 

“I guess?” Dylan says, running a hand through his hair. “I thought it would be a few more weeks, at least.” 

“They need some serious help,” Nick says. “You’re, like, really, really good.” 

“With the right linemates,” Dylan says, giving Nick a small smile. 

Nick kisses him, gentle. “You’ll have, like, Keller on your wing, you’ll be fine.” 

“But you’re cuter,” Dylan says, and then his face goes serious again and he turns away from Nick. “And – I dunno. I’m having fun here.”

“Stromer,” Nick says. “You know you’re, like, way too good for this league.” 

“No one’s too good for anything,” Dylan says. “Hockey is hockey.”

“But NHL hockey is better,” Nick says. 

“I know,” Dylan says, and then he falls back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “And I know I’m whining, but, like, I dunno. I liked winning.” He rubs his eyes. “Okay, that was obnoxious. I lied before, when I said no one’s too good for anything. You’re definitely too good for me.”

Nick chuckles a bit, then lies on his side next to Dylan, his head resting on his hand as he traces a finger over Dylan’s chest. “I’m pretty sure that’s for me to decide.” 

Dylan turns to look at him. “Are you going to break up with me?” 

A wave of panic hits Nick just hearing Dylan mention breaking up, but he takes a deep breath, then gives Dylan a reassuring smile and shakes his head. “Nah.” 

“Good,” Dylan says. He turns to look back up at the ceiling, then takes a deep breath. “It’s been a pretty solid few months.”

“Any highlights?” Nick asks. 

“I can think of a few.” Dylan smiles, then grabs Nick’s hand, pressing a kiss to it before holding it to his chest. “Who knows, maybe I’ll suck and get sent down.” 

“Don’t think like that,” Nick says. “What if they call me up in your place?” 

Dylan laughs. “Fair enough. Maybe you should get yourself called up, then.” 

“I’ll try my best,” Nick says. 

Dylan moves Nick’s hand away. “Alright, I have to go talk to reporters on the phone, I guess, and, uh. Pack?” 

“Oh,” Nick says, and his stomach drops at that. “Wow.” 

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “It goes pretty quick.” 

* * *

Falling asleep alone when you’ve shared a bed with someone every night for the past two weeks, just. Sucks.  

Two weeks, god – it feels like more than that. Nick thinks it shouldn’t be like this, after two weeks. There’s too much need, too much sureness, all too rushed, cut too short. They’ve barely scratched the surface of this, really. The problem is that things change too fucking often. They never get the chance to plant their feet. 

Nick opens his phone to check the time – he’s going to be exhausted tomorrow, probably – then, out of pure curiosity, checks to see how long it would take to get to Glendale. 

It’s not that bad, actually. He could probably get there 20 minutes earlier than Google Maps says if he goes faster than the speed limit. 

(Probably, Nick will not go faster than the speed limit.) 

**Author's Note:**

> for real though dylan's time on the roadrunners was absolutely wild to watch as a fan. who just walks into a professional league as a rookie and averages 1.73 points per game after 15 games? i'm p hesitant about the callup but. hopefully it works out well for him. 
> 
> [Come talk to me on tumblr,](https://lottswrites.tumblr.com/) or follow me on twitter @lottslottslotts


End file.
